Slimmy and Whitey Dutch, speaking freely and I think veraciously, told me many things. Whitey explained that, while he and Slimmy were shining lights of the Five Points, yet to be found fraternizing with Ike the Blood—an Eastman—was in perfect keeping with gang proprieties. For, as he pointed out, there was momentary truce between the Eastmans and the Five Points. Among the gangs, in seasons of gang peace, the nobles—by word of Whitey—were expected to make stately calls of ceremony and good fellowship upon one another, as had been the wont among Highland chieftains in the days of Bruce and Wallace.
“Speaking of the Gas House Gang: how do they live?” I asked.
“Stickin' up lushes mostly.”
“How much of this stick-up work goes on?”
“Well”—thoughtfully—“they'll pull off as many as twenty-five stick-ups to-night.”
“There's no such number of squeals coming in at headquarters.”
The contradiction emanated from my Central Office friend, who felt criticized by inference.
“Squeals!” exclaimed Whitey Dutch with warmth, “w'y should they squeal? The Gas House push'd cook 'em if they squealed. Suppose right now I was to go out an' get put in th' air; do you think I'd squeal? Well, I should say not; I'm no mutt! They'd about come gallopin' 'round tomorry wit' bale-sticks, an' break me arms an' legs, or mebby knock me block off. W'y, not a week ago, three Gas House shtockers stands me up in Riving-ton Street, an' takes me clock—a red one wit' two doors. Then they pinches a fiver out of me keck. They even takes me bank-book.
“W'at license has a stiff like youse got to have $375 in th' bank?' they says—like that.
“Next night they comes bluffin' round for me three hundred and seventy-five dollar plant—w'at do you t'ink of that? But I'm there wit' a gatt me-self that time, an' ready to give 'em an argument. W'en they sees I'm framed up, they gets cold feet. But you can bet I don't do no squealin'!”